The pig arrives already half-dissolved, a magenta thought that forgot which direction to think. Its snout opens to ask forgiveness from the color blue. The black ink around it is not shadow— it’s the pig’s opinion about itself, held too tight.

Listen: the oink is a whisper, a correction. The body says yes, the sky says maybe, and somewhere between them, a hoof learns gravity.

Pink as confession. Pink as a dream that woke up embarrassed it was just a body. The pig stands in its own erasure,

a question mark dissolving into the answer it already knew— that the most honest thing is to admit you are only half-finished paint, soft-edged, mid-apology, beautiful because you don’t remember what you were supposed to become.